


Rooftops, Therapy and Cigarettes

by combatwombat14



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Percy Jackson Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reyna is a good friend, Thalia Grace is a Good Friend, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29012466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/combatwombat14/pseuds/combatwombat14
Summary: Because nothing will be okay for Percy Jackson. All he has is a twenty-pack of his cigs and a rooftop to sit on. And maybe some lies he hangs on to, like everything will be okay. Like Reyna says, like Thalia says. (one-shot!)Crossposted on Fanfiction.net.(Inspired by Const3llation's 'A Ballad of Dreams and Nightmares' on Fanfiction.)
Relationships: Percy Jackson & Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano, Thalia Grace & Percy Jackson, Thalia Grace & Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	Rooftops, Therapy and Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Const3llations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Const3llations/gifts).



> Hello all! It's my first post since the CombatTombat situation. An angsty little one-shot for my readers. Haven't done one in ages, so I'd appreciate it if y'all left some reviews.
> 
> I might be crossposting more stuff onto ao3, but we'll see. Fanfiction.net is sometimes hard to work with.

A flick of the thumb, and light was born.

And as soon as it came, it went.

The gentle flame had already set the cigarette alight; the smoker placed it between his lips, grasped by his pointer and middle fingers.

The tobacco was something he'd tried to quit numerous times, yet he'd failed to do so. How could he? A simple drag of his cigarette offered him pleasure and release that was far better than the likes of whatever else he could fathom.

There were simply no earthly indulgences which could surpass the sheer influx of dopamine from a single breath of smoke.

He threw his head back and exhaled, finally done with his cancer-inducing breath. Then, the smoker tilted his back downwards, and surveyed his surroundings.

From his vantage point the man could see far and wide; sparkling lights illuminated the city, a blatant contrast with the dark of the night sky. Skyscrapers did as their name suggested, spiralling upwards and into the heavens above, standing firm at their base.

For anyone else it would've surely taken their breath away; the smoker's own had already been robbed by the cigarette in between his lips.

His placement was far from ideal or safe; he was on a roof-top, after all. More precisely, the smoker sat on the edge of it, legs hanging from his body, suspended in mid-air. His arms reached backwards and he leaned onto them, shifting his body weight to his palms. His back arched and the smoker exhaled in a sigh of relief.

The sky was dark as ever. Yet it was brighter than he'd imagined.

How long had he been up here? To that question, he didn't have an answer. Maybe if he checked how many smokes he'd had, an estimate could have been given, but it wasn't like he was bothered to do the math anyways.

For a moment, he stilled. His legs stopped swinging back and forth, and his arms were stiff, locked at the elbow. The smoker blinked twice before finally groaning and relieving himself of his tension, but instead of returning to his original position, he leaned forward.

Now, his body was seriously unbalanced. His back hunched over the rooftop-edge and the smoker had a full, clear view of the New York night street, sparkling with lights and blaring horns sounding even at this time of night.

The sight gave him no adrenaline. Even from this height, there was no rush nor sweaty palms nor racing heart.

He let a long breath out, exhaling smoke in the process.

"How long you been there, Ramirez-Arellano?"

His words were carried away by the wind, yet the subject of his intrigue managed to hear them.

"You know I hate it when you call me that."

"That's the reason why I do it."

Without even looking back, the boy just knew his companion was scowling right about now. He just smiled and stared forwards, taking another drag of his cigarette, relishing in the pleasure.

"And you, Grace? What's your deal?"

"Don't call me that."

The other girl was audibly more hostile, but Percy only smiled wider, his dart now clenched between his teeth and slightly dented.

A much calmer voice could be heard this time as the boy simply sat still, staring straight at the building in front of him.

"Percy. What's happening?"

"I'm smoking."

"Shut up. And talk." This time, the speaker sounded much harsher, more hostile, pressuring him to answer.

"I'm not inclined to." He drawled, waving his hand carelessly. "I'll keep whatever problem I have to myself, thanks."

"That's not healthy."

"And since when have I ever been?" He shot back as quick as she'd replied, a slight stinging venom seeping into his words as he bit her with his response. "Fighting in wars. Getting sent to hell." Perseus paused, seemingly contemplating his next words before apparently settling for the most vague continuation. He took a brief glance behind him before turning his attention back to his previous target (or rather, lack of one). "And other stuff."

At their lack of response, he sighed and flicked his cancer-stick to the side, reminding himself to put it out later. His hand dove into his pocket and latched onto the pack of smokes he had in there, fully intending to finish them by then end of the night. "Well, I can't get cancer. Demigod." He murmured to himself, but he knew they'd catch his words.

The boy reached around blindly, trying to feel the smooth, rounded surface of his lighter instead of the rough, coarse concrete he felt beneath the palm of his hand. He found no success in his endeavour, only to laugh harshly when he realised it sat comfortably in his shirt-pocket, a weight he hadn't noticed.

He figured there was some poetic meaning which could be derived from its positioning. He didn't care for that bullshit. Maybe Annabeth would.

A hand touched his shoulder.

The boy's breath grew shaky, erratic. The lighter slipped from his hands once then twice then thrice; the familiar motions of flicking the damn thing obstructed by the bloody nerves in his hands. They weren't fucking working properly, because if they were his bloody fingers wouldn't be shaking and his body wouldn't be fucking shivering and his head wouldn't tell him to fucking stop smoking; his cigarette was unsteadily perched between his index and middle fingers, preparing to fall from his grasp like his own body threatening to plummet to its death in the New York streets below.

He fucking lost control. He always fucking lost control.

Just like the fucking waves.

Absolute fucking bullshit.

"Don't." His word came through gritted teeth, but those sharp incisors, the ones which he had used to cut people with his words, time and fucking time again - they had been dulled in the wake of his pathetic showing. He had no authority - no control.

He hated that bloody word.

"Percy." Thalia's voice was softer than he'd ever heard. "You need to stop."

He let out little more than a whimper. Nonononono. Stopping was bad. Why would he stop? Stopping meant remembering and pain and hurt and -

"Please." Reyna had crouched down, resting her chin on his right shoulder to whisper in his ear. "Do it for - for us."

Another little whimper escaped from his lips as he slowly retreated his legs from their place dangling over the rooftop, tucking them under his own chin. His arms wrapped around his forelegs tightly as he clutched himself, rocking back and forth in a way that should've left him tumbling off the roof and laying dead, splattered on the sidewalk.

"I can't." He murmured, nails biting into his own forearms, leaving crescent-shaped indents on the surface on his skin, a warm liquid trickling from several of them. "Please. Please - I can't."

He could feel Reyna stroke his hair, his unkempt hair from days and weeks and months of neglecting to care for himself. It was riddled with tangles and clumps, but the girl worked through them all the same.

"Hush," she said, not unkindly, "It's okay. You can."

"Please-"

"Hush." This time, it was a command, though it didn't come from Reyna. "It'll be okay, Kelp-Head, and you better believe it."

Tears refused to fall, as they always did. Always on the verge of imploding, but it never happened.

He kept murmuring. Incomprehensible words in an inaudible tone; to decipher his speak would truly be a miracle.

Thalia came to the boy's side, stroking his back in soothing, familiar and repetitive motions. "It'll be okay."

"Okay," he murmured, eyes wide and jaw slack, still in some kind of daze, one that told of haunted memories and unwanted recollections. "Okay."

(What no one had realised as it lay on the ground and burned itself out

He hadn't put out his cigarette.)


End file.
